


A Shrine to Solitude

by 7thSpaceCadet



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Child Neglect, Dream is a piece shit, Everyone who needs a hug gets a hug fuck cannon, Exiled TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mentions of Gaslighting, Minecraft, No beta we die like wilbursoot, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Platonic Relationships, Slow To Update, This is just me fixating on a single line about a space woman so be warned, Tommy apologists rise up, Tommy needs a hug, TommyInnit-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Wingza, cough cough Philza is a shit dad don't @ me cough cough, extremely indulgent, idk how to tag, mentions of manipulation, occassional illustrations, sbi family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:28:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28318986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7thSpaceCadet/pseuds/7thSpaceCadet
Summary: What do you get when you combine an isolated child soldier who knows only of betrayal with a pillar so high up that the air thins to the point where breathing is a challenge, malnutrition, infection, exhaustion, and sensory overload as he Realizes how truly alone his is?A boy who grows too lightheaded to stand and who is too weak to balance upon bleeding feet who falls, and falls, and falls.A boy who doesn't want to die, but is faced with his own mortality as he reaches desperately for waters he knows he will not reach.A boy who thinks of a female astronaut who spends enough time amongst the stars that she becomes one-(And a boy who prays not to die.)With this answer, the question then becomes:What do you get when Clara, god of solitude and goddess of space answers that prayer?What do you get, when Tommy isn't left to die?
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), Ranboo & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Tommy & Clara, shippers dni - Relationship
Comments: 47
Kudos: 284





	A Shrine to Solitude

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Isolation, Imagination, and those that reside there.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28117926) by [Thing_Of_Trash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thing_Of_Trash/pseuds/Thing_Of_Trash). 
  * Inspired by [this town could never hold me for long](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27977106) by [Fireflies12](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fireflies12/pseuds/Fireflies12). 



> oh yeah, it's real space woman hours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The format for this chapter was very experimental and also written at 4 in the morning in a haze of mild insanity- so sorry if it's a bit clunky/confusing at times!

It is a moment of complete clarity that brings about his Realization.

  
  
  


Tommy stands at the block limit, upon a pillar born of desperation and helplessness-

A final testament to the remaining strength and will with nowhere to go but burning muscles and a sickly frame-

And his ultimate act of defiance, through a singular, resounding, _childish_ cry of, “ **No**.”

“I will not go Quietly.”

And the fog that had lived in the space between his subconscious and conscious self, was finally lifted.

And for a moment-

The pain from bleeding soles numbs to the point of residing in a state of unawareness.

The biting cold from thrashing winds and torn clothes falls around him in a mockery of warmth, and he lets its fake heat permeate his exerted form, 

The phantom pains of old scars from old threats fade, and infected, bleeding, cuts stop burning beneath his skin as bruises disappear under the dark veil of night.

He takes in deep lungfuls of air, free from the smell of burning cloth and wood and fire and ash.

And his mind

Becomes

Blissfully

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Blank.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


And in that open space, clear of subjectivity and anger and self loathing and justification and emotions that run too high too frequently, yet too low until they’re nothing all at once- 

he Realizes.

  
  


He Realizes that he is completely, and utterly, alone.

  
  


Not in the sense that he was isolated- he hadn’t been completely isolated in the physical sense in a long time. 

_But_ ,

(And that’s the kicker isn’t it? To be so, completely sure of something that it becomes carved into your very being, only to be proven false through a technicality?)

Tommy hadn’t been able to rely on anybody in a very, very long time.

(And he had never felt so alone)

Wilbur was _dead_ , and Ghostbur was unaware to the point that his company hurt more than it helped. There was no point in seeking comfort in the deceased- especially when they could never remember why you needed comfort in the first place. Especially when this selective amnesia makes them believe you’ve improved.

(Tommy hadn’t improved in a very long time. He can’t remember the last time Wilbur’s Blue did anything more than turn from clear to black between his palms.)

Technoblade had never been an option. He was a man with the face of a boar who didn’t know what it meant to lose-- a man who had no need for companionship, and who sought more enjoyment from his misery than his hopefulness.

(There used to be a time when he would have thought them brothers. 

In reality, he’d just misinterpreted poorly disguised annoyance and pity from a man who respected his father.)

But, misery had loved company, and so he drank up the crude insults and vicious laughter like a man dying of thirst desperately drinking in sand in hopes of finding water.

  
  


And it _hurt_.

(Yet, that one visit made him feel more himself than he had in days. He had no idea what it meant to be Himself anymore. Sometimes he wonders if he ever had.)

  
  


Philza was his father in name only. A winged-man of blatant favoritism and an inability to multitask- ceaselessly engaged in one thing or the other. Tommy had never been able to hold his attention for long, if he ever had. Unlike Wilbur, he had never been a man with a silver tongue and fingers that could dance skillfully over any stringed instrument that he was given. Nor was he like Techno, who was skilled with warfare and strategy, and who would never know the bitter taste of defeat (or the truth of of a mortal End). 

Instead, Tommy was no more than a negative feedback loop of passion that burned too hot and was killed too quickly, only to be revived, and quelled once more. The fire falling dimmer and dimmer until all that he had left to offer were embers.

(Until he couldn’t.)

(Until there was nothing left to burn.)

(Until they grew bored of the smoking wood and left him to rot.) 

  
  
  
  


Tubbo...

  
  
  
  
  


Toby.

  
  
  


Toby deserved better than he got.

Tommy certainly hadn’t helped.

(Tommy never makes things easier.)

He often drags his fingers over the familiar indents in his compass and wonders when he forgave Tubbo.

(He more often wonders if Tubbo ever forgave him.)

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


And Dream?

Dream was a man who excelled at lying to the point that his falsehoods became gospel.

Dream was a man who always knew the right words to say, and when.

(Dream was also a man who knew when the spoken word was not enough. Who knew when violence would be better understood.)

Dream was a man who flourished through the manipulation of others.

Dream was a man by which chaos sprung from his surroundings and became order beneath his gaze.

Dream was a man without a face.

Dream was a man who had _everything_.

(And then-)

  
  
  
  
  


_Dream was his only friend._

  
  
  
  
  


(-Tommy Realizes.)

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Wait… 

Dream was his friend?

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


…

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Wasn’t Dream the one who forced Toby to choose between the nation he’d died for and Tommy?

Wasn’t Dream the one who brought him to Logsteadshire?

Wasn’t he the one who _destroyed_ Logsteadshire?

Wasn’t he the one who destroyed his progress?

[“Wasn’t he the one who ‘saved’ you so that he may destroy you of his own volition?” A voice called to him softly, reminding him of molten rock and tears that turned to water vapor.”

[“Wasn’t he the one who _did_ destroy you?” Asked an even smaller voice, that reminded him of lungs filled with water and the question of why why why-]

  
  
  


And Tommy

 _Realizes_.

  
  
  
  
  


Dream was a man who controlled _Everything_ and _Everyone_.

Except for _Tommy_.

[Until he _did_ ,” whispers a cruel voice with a face hidden behind a plastic smile.

Until he _didn’t,_ ” hisses a voice in reply, sounding of bright blue eyes and boundless gumption.]

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


And then he’s _overwhelmed_.

He becomes all too aware of how little oxygen there is so high up.

And he begins to Suffocate.

He becomes aware of his bleeding feet and bleeding palms and bleeding face and bleeding brows and bleeding lip and bruised knuckles and bruised knees and scarred nose and scarred neck and scarred back and scarred arms and-

And he feels every tear in his skin that had ever been made (and would ever _be_ made)- 

and he _hurts_.

And his mind fights a war of its own creation between a thousand little half truths and lies, and a thousand traitorous calls for Wilbur or Techno or Philza or Toby- 

[“or Dream?” a soothing voice with a plastic smile hums.

Tommy resolutely ignores it.]

  
  
  
  


And then he suddenly feels very lightheaded.

very faint.

very _weak_.

And then he’s 

f

a

l

l

i

n

g.

  
  


And his Life is flashing before his eyes.

(his _Final_ Life.)

And he’s clutching a compass between white knuckles as he tries his best to aim for the water (and he know he’s not gonna make it- he know he knows he knows) and he closes his eyes from the force of the fall and the rush of the air (and not because he’s scared- Tommy was a big man and big men never had fear. Not even when faced with their mortality.)

  
  


And as he descends-

  
  
  


He thanks and curses Wilbur in equal amounts.

(And he silently wishes Ghostbur hadn’t vanished.)

And he thanks and curses Techno in equal amounts.

(And he silently wishes Techno had considered him a brother instead of a hero- he had never wanted to be a hero, he’d just wanted to be _wanted-_ )

And he thanks and curses Philza in equal amounts.

(And he silently wishes that he’d had wings or an unchallenged charisma or undeniable physical prowess so he’d know what it meant to have a dad.)

And he thanks Toby-

[“-Tubbo.” A voice that’s clings desperately the past corrects him.]

(And he wishes his blind pursuit of his discs hadn’t forced Tubbo to choose between being a good president and being a good friend.

And he wishes that he and Tubbo could have been stupid and spontaneous and free from the bondages of war.

And he wishes that they’d ran away that night on the bench without a destination in mind or plans to return.

And he wishes.

And wishes.

And _wishes_.)

And in a final burst of fervour, he curses Dream with his entire being, reaching for the water in one, _Final_ effort born from anger in a body that screams of hunger, even though he _knows_ (he knows he knows).

(And he wishes that part of him wasn’t thanking Dream for his companionship.

For his lies and twisted half honesty 

[“His truths,” the plastic smile retorts.]

For his false kinship 

[“His benevolence,” the plastic smile gently corrects.]

For netherite gilded scars and breaths that were choked with smog.

[“...”

“You deserved it.”

“...Right?” 

The plastic is no longer smiling.

It sounds unsure.

Tommy takes it as a win.]

And he falls nearer and nearer to the water, and a part of him he’d thought long passed _hopes._

(And the other part of him _knows_.)

And he clutches the compass between shaking hands and he cries for _Somebody_

_Wilbur._

_Techno._

_Philza._

_Tubbo_.

[“Dream?” suggests a 

plastic smile.

“ _Nikki_ ,” he says instead, 

and finds he means it.]

And he thinks desperately of a female astronaut amongst the stars with nothing but death and music for company, and he calls out to her to _understand._

and he begs for her to _hear him._

and he _cries_ for her to _save him_.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


And then he Realizes that it’s a clear night, as he forces his eyes open to see it reflected in the waters that he knows (he knows he knows) he won’t reach.

And as the stars come closer and closer, he suddenly feels very, very small.

(And so, so, alone.)

And he thinks of Clara, who learned to live amongst the glittering void in an echo of solitude. And he thinks of Clara who exists contentedly in the spaces between stars. And he thinks of Clara who encouraged the birth of new stars with songs she’d sing and stories she’d share reenacted in nebulae. And he thinks of Clara who discarded her spacesuit for freeing cloths of dark matter and ribbons of pure energy-

And he wishes to know how she could be so happy alone.

And he wishes _he_ knew how.

And he wishes.

And he falls.

And wishes.

And falls.

(And asks)

(And _prays_ )

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


(Please don’t let me die.)

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


And then, he’s no longer falling.

  
  
  


Instead of crashing into the hard ground, with his body crumpled pitifully into a monument of shame-

Instead of crashing through the waters he’d so desperately reached for, and begging not to drown-

He feels as though he’s been _suspended (in space) (in time) (in motion)_.

And for a moment, he thinks that maybe his body is laying broken upon what used to be Logsteadshire. Upon dancing flames and smothering ash that serve as a perfect funeral pyre. 

And for a moment, he thinks that maybe, This _is_ Death.

But then, he opens his eyes.

  
  
  
  


And he stares.

  
  
  


And stares.

  
  


And stares.

  
  


Past the thousands of million of trillions of stars, lazily twinkling in acknowledgement of his presence.

Past the planets which slowly spun on their axes, pausing only for a moment to wonder at the new satellite within their gravity.

Past the handful of little bits of minerals and dust forming their own orbit around his head and giving him a halo of miniature moons.

  
  
  
  
  


And he sees _Clara_.

  
  
  
  
  


Clara, with skin like the moment after dusk, and hair like sheep's wool which shone with stars of their own, draped with garments formed of quintessence which fell around her freely, alongside a ribbon of bright, white, hot light that wrapped delicately around her middle finger and circled her arm like a star orbiting the center of its galaxy.

Clara whose eyes shone as brightly as the neutron star which glowed softly in an abstract pattern upon her forehead, and adorned her hair with rays of burning light-

Clara, who gingerly brings her hands to cover her mouth, seemingly stunned (maybe shaken) by his appearance, before tears of hot plasma sprang from eyes of blinding light, rolling unbidden down her face. 

Clara, who approached him with ginger steps through an absent gravity, and wrapped him in her arms so carefully- it was almost like she thought he’d shatter if she held him too tight. 

Clara, who softly caressed his hair and freed it of soot and dirt and bark without judgement. 

And Clara, who struggled to hide the tears that kept falling, and comforted him with mindless platitudes, his head tucked beneath her chin so close that he could feel the clench in her jaw as she took measured breaths.

“ **I’m sorry,** ” her voice shook as she whispered, and Tommy stopped himself from moving in fear that this was all a dream, and he’d wake up and he’d hurt and hurt and hurt and Never wake up again and he’d be- 

[“alone?” ask the small voice choked with sea water and confusion.

Tommy shrinks at the thought, and Clara holds him tighter.]

“ **I think I’ve grown too used to my domain** ,” Clara says, changing the subject suddenly, and he can practically _feel_ the intent behind her every word, meant to comfort despite the way her voice trembled with barely restrained tears that spoke of a deep sorrow and of a quiet, righteous anger and apology upon apology upon apology. 

And there's a beat of silence in which a wispy laugh escapes past Clara's lips, and she finishes her thought.

“ **The stars never judged me when I cried- I think I’ve forgotten how to do so quietly.** ”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


And Tommy notices that the ring of dust and rocks that orbit his head are joined by a planet of salt water.

And then another.

And another.

Until suddenly he’s become a star unto himself, surrounded by a solar system, arisen from his own anger and sorrow and anguish and _relief_

and he cries so loudly his whole body shakes with the effort

and he cries so loudly that white dwarfs burning with barely restrained light glow dimmer in sympathy

and he cries so loudly that Clara holds him and holds him and doesn’t let him get lost in the vastness of space or the tightness in his chest

and then-

and then, his cries soften

and he feels the confusing and painful tangle of thoughts and emotions and beliefs loosen

and instead of Realizing-

Tommy _Rests_.

And Clara hums Chirp to him as he dreams of a space woman and of escaping death and of catharsis.

And he falls asleep amongst the stars, who promise him everything if only he is willing to greet another day.

  
  
  
  
  


And for once, tomorrow doesn’t seem impossible.

So, 

  
  
  
  
  


He decides he'll Try.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


(And Clara cries as she thanks the stars.)

(And Tubbo gently holds a compass between shaky fingers, and wonders why it insists Tommy is above him.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah <3

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!! comments are always appreciated!!!


End file.
